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doctor_tailor2012-03-18 03:54 pm
crowdog66) wrote in doctor_tailor2012-03-18 03:54 pm
Entry tags:
Fic: "Impulse" 1/?
Title: Impulse 1/?
Pairing: Garak/Bashir
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1224
Summary: An unusual incident at lunch leaves Garak utterly dumbfounded.
Notes: Set between "Cardassians" and "The Wire".
*************************************
"… so I said to myself, 'Really, a woman in charge of an entire host of diplomatic envoys should be trusted not to put plaid together with a floral pattern!'" Garak paused dramatically, giving Bashir the glance that was his cue to offer either enthusiastic agreement or a sharp rebuttal, but the Human wasn't on the mark: in fact he was far from it, picking at his slice of pie and studying his plate as if it contained a deep dark secret that he was charged with somehow unravelling.
Garak was feeling generous, so he gave Bashir a full count of three seconds before prompting: "Doctor?"
"Hm?" It took a moment but Bashir finally looked up, his hazel eyes briefly unfocussed. All around them the usual lunchtime babble of the Replimat continued unabated from every full table.
"Are you even listening to me?"
"Oh yes," Bashir agreed at once with such sincerity that Garak didn't doubt him, although the smile that spread across the narrow golden face seemed... off, somehow. "To every word." The smile widened. Yes, definitely not the usual timbre of what passed between them. "You really do have a magnificent voice, so… so expressive…"
Garak kept his own smile polite, but mentally he took a big step backward, trying to get an accurate perspective on that unexpected remark as quickly as possible. "Really?" he asked mildly. "Because you seem… well, rather preoccupied."
Bashir was gazing at him, unblinking, now completely focussed with an intensity that only added more spin to the situation. Garak didn't like it. He wasn't accustomed to a known quantity suddenly spitting out a completely unexpected variable, like that compliment — or the look on Bashir's face, soft and full of yearning. "Do I?" the Doctor asked, studying Garak so intently that he could feel the weight of it pressing on every scale. "Well, yes… I suppose I am. I never noticed…" He hooded his eyes and spoke in a lower, more caressing tone: "How did I never notice…?"
"Doctor," Garak said sharply, every peripheral alarm suddenly going off at once. He rested his wrist on the table, not quite putting down his fork, and fixed Bashir with one of the less severe variations of the stare he applied when interrogating enemies of the State. "Listen to yourself! Are you sure you're feeling all —"
He saw Bashir's expression shift, the softness becoming urgent determination, but he'd dropped so many of his shields around this man, become so accustomed to perceiving the Starfleet officer as a non-antagonist, that he didn't immediately leap from his seat when Bashir rose from his own. Only when the Human started to come around the table did he begin to push back his chair, but Bashir was too quick: he reached down, caught hold of Garak's shoulders, and pulled him to his feet with unexpected strength. Garak, caught flat-footed, opened his mouth to demand to know just what in the Nine Hells Bashir thought he was playing at —
— only to have his mouth covered with a deep and passionate kiss as those strong brown hands closed in the fabric of his upper sleeves, pulling him closer and refusing to let him go.
The fork clattered to the floor, completely forgotten as Garak grabbed at Bashir's waist, more to steady himself than anything else: he'd been pulled off-balance in more ways than one. Through the low moan of satisfaction Bashir was emitting against his lips he heard the background level of conversation in the Replimat die precipitously, replaced by a silence whose exactly quality was an enigma; Garak, himself, was so shocked that for a few seconds he did absolutely nothing except let himself be kissed by the eager, commanding, and surprisingly skilled young man. When their lips finally parted with a little wet smack he found himself staring up into Bashir's eyes, and realized that he was breathless, that he'd actually forgotten to breathe.
Bashir studied his expression for less than a second, then smiled with catlike satisfaction, transferred one hand to the back of Garak's head and the other to the small of his back, and moved in again. This time Garak tried to evade him, but the fingers tangled in his hair hampered the escape attempt: he was being kissed again, and someone to his left and behind him gasped out what sounded like strangled embarrassed laughter, and he was finally starting to consider the best way to make Bashir let to of him without breaking something —
— when the Federation officer's combadge emitted a bright chirp and a voice filtered out from between them:
"Dax to Bashir."
That seemed to penetrate Bashir's obsession: the pressure of those full lips faltered, and then Bashir inhaled sharply and pulled back enough to look Garak in the eyes again, his expression flushed and dazed and starting to be confused.
"Ah," he said, blinking rapidly. "Go ahead…"
"I need to see you in the Infirmary right away," Dax continued, as if she hadn't picked up on his dazed tone. "It looks like the Averal ambassador left us with more than just a set of trade agreements."
""I…" His dark eyebrows drew even closer together, the dusky skin between them furrowing as he continued to stare down into Garak's eyes. Without dropping his gaze Garak insinuated his right hand between their chests and applied brief pressure to Bashir's combadge.
"Garak to Dax," he said, infusing his voice with authority leavened with just the right amount of concern. "I'm with Doctor Bashir, and I don't think he's —"
"No," Bashir interjected after giving his head a little shake, "No, I'm…. Jadzia, are you still there?"
"Yes, Julian."
"I think the Infirmary is exactly where I need to be." His hands didn't seem to want to let go; their grip tightened fractionally on Garak's tunic and hair before he was able to release the Cardassian and take a short step back, looking painfully perplexed. "I'll… I'll meet you there."
"Acknowledged. Dax out."
For a second Bashir's hands, which had fallen to his sides, started to rise again, and Garak braced himself to fend off another attempt to grab him — but the Human stopped himself. He gazed at Garak for a long moment with a heightened blush on his sharp cheekbones, opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it tightly and started to back away. It took him another couple of seconds to tear his eyes away so he could turn around and head off down the Promenade toward the medical bay at an urgent pace, leaving Garak staring after him, and the entire Replimat staring at Garak, all of their meals momentarily forgotten.
Through the pounding of his own heart Garak barely heard the sound of a Laraxian clearing his throat, followed by a rising murmur from the crowd full of puzzlement, amazement and enough hostility that he abandoned his own half-finished hasparat salad and retreated toward his shop, his pulse and his mind equally racing. He had no idea what had just passed between him and the good Doctor — but whatever it was, it had seemed as complete a surprise to Bashir as it had been to himself.
And Garak was not a man who welcomed or trusted surprises.
[TO BE CONTINUED...]
Part Two here.
Pairing: Garak/Bashir
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1224
Summary: An unusual incident at lunch leaves Garak utterly dumbfounded.
Notes: Set between "Cardassians" and "The Wire".
*************************************
"… so I said to myself, 'Really, a woman in charge of an entire host of diplomatic envoys should be trusted not to put plaid together with a floral pattern!'" Garak paused dramatically, giving Bashir the glance that was his cue to offer either enthusiastic agreement or a sharp rebuttal, but the Human wasn't on the mark: in fact he was far from it, picking at his slice of pie and studying his plate as if it contained a deep dark secret that he was charged with somehow unravelling.
Garak was feeling generous, so he gave Bashir a full count of three seconds before prompting: "Doctor?"
"Hm?" It took a moment but Bashir finally looked up, his hazel eyes briefly unfocussed. All around them the usual lunchtime babble of the Replimat continued unabated from every full table.
"Are you even listening to me?"
"Oh yes," Bashir agreed at once with such sincerity that Garak didn't doubt him, although the smile that spread across the narrow golden face seemed... off, somehow. "To every word." The smile widened. Yes, definitely not the usual timbre of what passed between them. "You really do have a magnificent voice, so… so expressive…"
Garak kept his own smile polite, but mentally he took a big step backward, trying to get an accurate perspective on that unexpected remark as quickly as possible. "Really?" he asked mildly. "Because you seem… well, rather preoccupied."
Bashir was gazing at him, unblinking, now completely focussed with an intensity that only added more spin to the situation. Garak didn't like it. He wasn't accustomed to a known quantity suddenly spitting out a completely unexpected variable, like that compliment — or the look on Bashir's face, soft and full of yearning. "Do I?" the Doctor asked, studying Garak so intently that he could feel the weight of it pressing on every scale. "Well, yes… I suppose I am. I never noticed…" He hooded his eyes and spoke in a lower, more caressing tone: "How did I never notice…?"
"Doctor," Garak said sharply, every peripheral alarm suddenly going off at once. He rested his wrist on the table, not quite putting down his fork, and fixed Bashir with one of the less severe variations of the stare he applied when interrogating enemies of the State. "Listen to yourself! Are you sure you're feeling all —"
He saw Bashir's expression shift, the softness becoming urgent determination, but he'd dropped so many of his shields around this man, become so accustomed to perceiving the Starfleet officer as a non-antagonist, that he didn't immediately leap from his seat when Bashir rose from his own. Only when the Human started to come around the table did he begin to push back his chair, but Bashir was too quick: he reached down, caught hold of Garak's shoulders, and pulled him to his feet with unexpected strength. Garak, caught flat-footed, opened his mouth to demand to know just what in the Nine Hells Bashir thought he was playing at —
— only to have his mouth covered with a deep and passionate kiss as those strong brown hands closed in the fabric of his upper sleeves, pulling him closer and refusing to let him go.
The fork clattered to the floor, completely forgotten as Garak grabbed at Bashir's waist, more to steady himself than anything else: he'd been pulled off-balance in more ways than one. Through the low moan of satisfaction Bashir was emitting against his lips he heard the background level of conversation in the Replimat die precipitously, replaced by a silence whose exactly quality was an enigma; Garak, himself, was so shocked that for a few seconds he did absolutely nothing except let himself be kissed by the eager, commanding, and surprisingly skilled young man. When their lips finally parted with a little wet smack he found himself staring up into Bashir's eyes, and realized that he was breathless, that he'd actually forgotten to breathe.
Bashir studied his expression for less than a second, then smiled with catlike satisfaction, transferred one hand to the back of Garak's head and the other to the small of his back, and moved in again. This time Garak tried to evade him, but the fingers tangled in his hair hampered the escape attempt: he was being kissed again, and someone to his left and behind him gasped out what sounded like strangled embarrassed laughter, and he was finally starting to consider the best way to make Bashir let to of him without breaking something —
— when the Federation officer's combadge emitted a bright chirp and a voice filtered out from between them:
"Dax to Bashir."
That seemed to penetrate Bashir's obsession: the pressure of those full lips faltered, and then Bashir inhaled sharply and pulled back enough to look Garak in the eyes again, his expression flushed and dazed and starting to be confused.
"Ah," he said, blinking rapidly. "Go ahead…"
"I need to see you in the Infirmary right away," Dax continued, as if she hadn't picked up on his dazed tone. "It looks like the Averal ambassador left us with more than just a set of trade agreements."
""I…" His dark eyebrows drew even closer together, the dusky skin between them furrowing as he continued to stare down into Garak's eyes. Without dropping his gaze Garak insinuated his right hand between their chests and applied brief pressure to Bashir's combadge.
"Garak to Dax," he said, infusing his voice with authority leavened with just the right amount of concern. "I'm with Doctor Bashir, and I don't think he's —"
"No," Bashir interjected after giving his head a little shake, "No, I'm…. Jadzia, are you still there?"
"Yes, Julian."
"I think the Infirmary is exactly where I need to be." His hands didn't seem to want to let go; their grip tightened fractionally on Garak's tunic and hair before he was able to release the Cardassian and take a short step back, looking painfully perplexed. "I'll… I'll meet you there."
"Acknowledged. Dax out."
For a second Bashir's hands, which had fallen to his sides, started to rise again, and Garak braced himself to fend off another attempt to grab him — but the Human stopped himself. He gazed at Garak for a long moment with a heightened blush on his sharp cheekbones, opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it tightly and started to back away. It took him another couple of seconds to tear his eyes away so he could turn around and head off down the Promenade toward the medical bay at an urgent pace, leaving Garak staring after him, and the entire Replimat staring at Garak, all of their meals momentarily forgotten.
Through the pounding of his own heart Garak barely heard the sound of a Laraxian clearing his throat, followed by a rising murmur from the crowd full of puzzlement, amazement and enough hostility that he abandoned his own half-finished hasparat salad and retreated toward his shop, his pulse and his mind equally racing. He had no idea what had just passed between him and the good Doctor — but whatever it was, it had seemed as complete a surprise to Bashir as it had been to himself.
And Garak was not a man who welcomed or trusted surprises.
[TO BE CONTINUED...]
Part Two here.
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End for now, eh?
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